The point is that you can never ever run out of things to write about. Just let your hand go, and it will write something. If you put no blocker on it, no filter, and you have no criteria, and just write whatever is flying through your brain down on a piece of paper, or a wall, or a table, or whatever it is you’re writing on, you can’t possibly run out of things to write because your brain is always firing, there’s always something shooting through it, every fleeting moment from its formation until your death — your brain-death, that is. If your heart is beating but your brain is blank, you aren’t really alive, because you can’t write anymore. At that point, you have truly run out of ideas.
Hidalgo licked the envelope lid, sealing it shut. He liked using envelopes; he still liked sending and receiving paper mail. He imagined the letter being picked up by a post carrier first thing in the morning as he strolled down the street to the post office. Hidalgo wondered how long it would be before he heard anything back. He wondered if he’d hear anything back at all. He betted, though, that he would. *** On Saturday, Theresa Hawkins decided to open the preceding week’s mail, which had been piling up on the countertop next to her bowl of pens. A few items in, she found herself grasping a manila business envelope from a company called Lipno Insurance. She had no dealings with this Lipno Insurance, so she threw the letter aside into her recycling bin, thinking it to be an advertisement or some such nonsense. Several weeks later, Theresa received a telephone call on her private cell. “Hello, is this Ms. Hawkins?” said a vaguely bored voice on the other end of the line. T...
one of my absolute favorite entries
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